Page 135 of Jackie

The sun is low. Afternoon rays shoot like arrows through the windows as we make our way upstairs. We come to the bedroom.

“I’d like a mantel carving for this room,” I say. “Do you think that would be possible?”

“Yes, Mrs. Kennedy.” A gentleness in his voice I almost can’t bear.

From my pocket, I draw out a folded piece of paper.

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In this room lived John Fitzgerald Kennedy with his wife, Jacqueline—during the two years ten months and three days he was president of the United States, January 20, 1961–November 22, 1963.

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“Thank you, Mr. West.”

I hand it to him. How many lists I’ve made on yellow lined paper just like this. Lists of names and plans.

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The next day is Friday, the sixth of December. It’s the slightest thing, the sadness I feel, the children’s small hands in mine as the three of us walk out the door. Fresh cold air snaps my face.

No photographs of him. Not yet. I still can’t bear to see his face.

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I lie upstairs in the house in Georgetown with books, cigarettes, magazines. Everyday sounds unfold around me. Provi and Nanny Shaw getting the children dressed, my children, their little sweaters and coats, Caroline’s bag packed for school. I want to be with them. But I’m still too far off to the side.

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I regret that flimsy trope of Camelot already. So desperate. Saccharine. You would have hated it. Even if you did like the song. I should have chosen something heroic, about greatness, strength, risk—something to do with the Greeks.

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In the afternoons, I let the room grow dark. I watch how the last of the daylight retreats and the dusk begins to rise, the room by increments destroyed.

…

At first there’s a constant stream of visitors. I keep thinking I’ll be happy to see them.

Joe Alsop, Betty Spaulding, Ben and Tony Bradlee. I tell them the story.

I should have done it differently, I say. Turned sooner, after the first shot.

I’ve said the same words so many times, and each time, I feel closer to saying it for the last time. Each time I feel something lighten inside me. But an hour later, the dark of it is back.

—

If only I’d looked right instead of left

If only I had pulled him down, the second shot would not have hit

If I’d been paying more attention

If I had not been complaining in my head about the sun

If I hadn’t been wanting so much, the cool promise of the tunnel ahead, the green of the park beyond.

And why red roses in Dallas? Everywhere else they were yellow. I should have known then.

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